Ash on the Wind
by skull132
Summary: Nearly two centuries have passed since the Red Year, since the downfall of the Tribunal temple. With this downfall, a Dunmer house dedicated to the upkeep of the Tribunal was left in tatters. Shards and embers remain, some still follow the Tribunal of demigods, others take to the New Temple, a revitalization of old traditions. Some simply wander, and search for something to follow.
1. A Road

A traveller, clad in chainmail of moderate weight, with blue and white fabrics draped over it, emerges from the idyllic Cyrodiil treeline as the day neared its end. The traveller was looking for a place to rest, his eyes scanning the open field before him through the slits of a golden face mask. A group of ruins - a calm enough place to rest. The traveller set foot towards them. As he stepped onto the ancient stone, he felt a howling gale pass through the ruins. It felt as if it travelled straight through him. His hand took grasp of his blade, drawing a quarter from its sheathe, the rasp of metal echoing through the deserted halls.

A sound could be heard, speech. Commanding, authoritative, "Disarm yourself, and flee," it demanded of the traveller. The voice had no origin, it did not exist outside the traveller's mind, outside his mask. The traveller tightened the grip on his blade, now fully exposed and ready to be used. A gray figure soon emerged to his front, almost transparent in its existence: a mere specter.

"Flee!" it commanded once more. The traveller chose not to respond, simply to stand and watch.

Such insolence demanded action on the side of the protector, the specter approached. It raised its hand, speaking no words. The cold and silvery steel of the traveller's blade heated, slowly turning shades of red. With a grunt, the traveller discarded his weapon, flinging it towards the assailant. There was no effect, the assailant simply proceeded on course towards its goal.

As the gap of metres closed, the traveller drew his second blade: a blade requiring two hands, carried on his back. The black metal of the sword bore writing, now shimmering blue. He raised it with two hands, watching the specter slow down, and stop. With its hand still raised, the ghostly body tilted its head at the sight of the weapon, and stood there, watching. The traveller lacked the distance to build up a charge, instead he simply stepped forth, raised his blade and brought it down upon the shade. There was no resistance generated by the ghostly form: the large two-handed sword simply passed through. Such a quirk forced him to lose his balance as the metal of the blade came into contact with the cold stone. As he wrestled the sword back under control, he noticed the shade had disappeared.

Calming his breathing, he quickly glanced around him: no one else, nothing else, not even the voice, which so boastfully demanded action of him before. A small pile of ash had remained on the stone slabs, it caught the traveller's eye. Resting the tip of the great sword's blade against the floor, he knelt and shifted through the material with his left hand. He quickly noticed a stone, a soulgem, as he recognized it. Standing up, the sword still resting by his side, he inspected the crystal. A blue shimmer resonated within its core, indicated a presence in the matrix itself: an active soul still bound inside.

* * *

"You there!" an elven voice called. This time, the voice demanding action of the traveller had a tangible presence. He quickly pocketed the gem and turned to face a group of elves brandishing the infamous image and appearance of the Thalmor.

Their leader made his presence rather clear, stepping forth and provided yet another order, "Submit your weapons and remove your helm, necromancer!"

Two footsoldiers, their blades drawn and ready, closely flanked the mage issuing commands. Two pairs of archer had kept a wider gap as the confrontation began; their bows were fully strung in preparation, and aimed at the traveller.

"I repeat one more time: submit. To the authority. Of the Thalmor."

The Altmer had figured that a melee confrontation would not end favourably. Instead, he kept the two swordsmen and himself at a distance, with the archers existing as a quick way to resolve any potential attempt on the traveller's behalf to engage in combat.

A gauntleted hand carefully absorbed the distilled magicka of a scroll resting on the traveller's belt. A ball of magicka formed itself in his hand. He crushed the ball decisively, the act requiring more force than one would imagine. A burst of flame and light radiated outwards from him, staggering the assailants. The traveller quickly used this opportunity: sheathed his large blade, and made a break for the treeline, picking up the discarded longsword along the way.

Any arrows let loose with the intent of striking the runner missed their mark, a full recovery from the blinding illusion spell taking longer than the Altmer were comfortable with, or had the patience for. "After him! Chase him down!"

Despite the foliage, the trees and shrubbery, the traveller found it difficult to lose the voices chasing after him. The same environment which was failing to conceal him was proving a difficulty: he had to watch his step. The mask was starting to showcase its limiting side, limiting the breath the traveller could draw, limiting his eyesight: forcing him to walk in a proverbial tunnel, dodging both trees and knee-high shrubbery that populated the Cyrodiil forests. His pursuers, luckily, were not having a better time. They found it difficult to set arrows after him, but also found it impossible to _stop_ tracking him.

The forest broke out into an open road, the traveller was quick to assume the path of least resistance, and follow the seemingly endless road now set before him. The sound of armour-clad feet hitting hard dirt and rock were still audible behind him; all the while feeling as if the heavy blade slung over his back was getting more and more difficult to carry. Every so often, the distinct noise of a bow-string being let loose rung through his ears, as an odd arrow passed by him. This forced the traveller to avoid, to sidestep, and ultimately, to lose ground. This was unsustainable, it needed to end.

Thoughts, ideas, strategies, plans - _a_ plan! Running hadn't worked, but it had gained him one thing: the enemy was now clustered together. The traveller quickly glanced over his shoulders, to confirm his theory: the archers were no longer in a position to pin and kill him at a moment's notice, or at least, not without him getting to the mage first. This provided fuel for a flame which was still burning: hope for surviving this little confrontation. He glanced down to further develop his plan: three scrolls tucked away on a bandolier running across his chest. Good, this was sufficient.

He quickly absorbed the energy within two of them, leaving the third. Turning himself for a moment, he unleashed a fireball towards the Thalmor chasing him, and then another. Flame, heat, this time very real, proved ineffective. The shouts and footsteps kept persisting. The traveller, his left hand grasping the last scroll, lessened his stride until fully halted. He faced about, faced his enemies, and drew the sword off of his back, letting blade rest against the dirt path. The Altmer formed a semi-circle, some ten metres away from him.

"So," the mage spoke with a distinct lack of breath, "you're finally... Done running?" Tired, winded, of course. All of them were. So was the traveller. The Thalmor mage, perhaps out of arrogance, stepped forth and raised his voice: "Well then! Necromancer! What will it be?!"

A mistake. The traveller broke into a charge, his left hand dispensing the caught magicka over his body and armour as he did so. The archers, their bows obviously at full draw, let loose their arrows. Ineffective: the coating of energy rendered the projectiles useless, they were quickly deflected by the spell's effects. Before the mage could react, the heavy blade had been swung up high, and then back down again, slicing into his shoulder. Robe, skin and bone cracked under the weight and speed. With a grunt, his life was extinguished.

The two footsoldiers charged the traveller as he was attempting to remove his weapon from the husk before him. Their strikes required immediate action: he raised his left gauntlet in defence, it bearing heavier construction than the right: less movement range, but more protection, and deflected the blows. He discarded the idea of using his main sword, and quickly fell back to using the longsword, unsheathing it and charging at the pair assaulting him. A few moments of metal crashing against metal, adrenaline, grunts and screams, and the two Altmer swordsmen fell.

The archers, the advantage of range being non-existent, had been provided with no chance. Very quickly did the fight end at that point.

* * *

Seven bodies, clothed in garb very noticeable, would attract attention. The traveller reacquired his lost blade, picking it up and sheathing it, along with the longsword. He needed to put distance between him and the scene, and so he did. He picked a direction, and started walking down the road. The traveller chose to walk until the late autumn sun had disappeared, after which he pulled into the treeline forever flanking the road.

He found a tree, a large one, inside the forest. It was out of view from anyone travelling down the road, and would serve as the safest place one could hope to find now. He needed rest, and he knew this. With his equipment still adorning him, his legs splayed out in front of him, and his back resting against the old tree, the traveller fell into slumber under the star-riddled sky.

* * *

**Author's notes:** First thing I've posted here. As a point, this is mainly created to start refining my writing skills, and the publication would actually provide incentive to finish chapters, as opposed to simply leaving them half-written, or without an end. Hopefully some find this tale interesting.


	2. A Tired Awakening

A quiet, late morning in the lush forests of Cyrodiil. A time of day still accompanied by the birds singing, despite the approaching winter and cold. Leaned against the trunk of a grand tree, the traveller's head was bowed down. His mask, coated in a colour matching that of gold, bore hack marks, which intermingled with the intricate design etched, and in some areas, faded, on it. A hood made of blue cloth was pulled over his head, covered with dust and dirt. His chest was moving with a peaceful rhythm, his hands and legs simply splayed out on the glistening grass.

Among the simple gusts of wind, the singing of the birds, an unnatural noise became more present. That of carefully arranged footsteps. Instincts, the very core of every living creature, alerted the sleeping traveller. With care, he lifted his head to find the intruder. The sun was beaming down, piercing the canopy of leaves at an angle blinding to him. He could only make out a single shape approaching him. As the traveller's eyes adjusted, and the bright haze lessened, the shape became more defined: a figure with a careful, lowered stance and a bow, strung and ready for use.

The situation was not a favourable one for the traveller: resting in foreign woods, alone, hunted. And now glancing at yet another potential enemy, his intent unknown. With care, the warrior moved his hand to grip his longsword, his mind and body in general making careful moves to prepare for combat. The intruder halted, potentially having noticed the actions of the traveller. His bow remained strung.

The traveller pounced: he took a deep breath, pushed himself forwards and onto his feet, attempting to clear his blade of the scabbard. With a grunt, he was halted. Not by any physical force, but by pain. Every single muscle in his body was grasped by agony and seized. His blade was half-drawn, one foot set before the other, as he hunched over. From what the traveller could see, the intruder flinched and raised his bow, but the lack of an actual arrow being released provided some hope.

"Easy! Easy..." a female voice called, the proximity confirming that it belonged to the intruder. "Don't give me reason to hurt you, and I won't," she continued. Her voice was strained, the encounter and sudden action obviously enough drawing out a heightened stated of alert.

The traveller saw reason, or at the very least saw that he was in no position to barter. With a clink, the hilt of his blade slid against the metal mouth of its scabbard. "Right," her voice was still on edge. "Hands away from the metal and paper, and we can talk." The traveller complied, resting his hands by his side, his shoulders slumped forward. He now simply focused on the actions of the hunter.

"Alright... Thank you..." Her words were becoming slightly calmer as the traveller complied with the instructions provided, but the bowstring remained at full draw. "You're... Eh, responsible for the dead Thalmor?"

"Blunt," the masked traveller spat out, "yes."

"Now, _who_ are you?"

With the clothing, armour and blades brandished by the traveller, it was safe to assume that he was beyond a simple raider or highwayman. A fact further backed by the observation that he was alone. "A traveller."

"Where from?"

"Leyawiin," a shortly worded answer to a shortly worded question.

"Uh, I've never seen someone like you come from the south."

"What do you want from me," the traveller cut short any time provided to the hunter for musings. He grunted slightly, and adjusted his shoulders and body, hoping to find a stance to reduce the pain still playing havoc with his nerves. The shift of pose elicited a reaction from the hunter, a small flinch, perhaps putting her a small measure closer to letting loose the metal arrowhead aimed at the traveller being interrogated.

"Well... You're in my woods, and responsible for dead Thalmor..." A curious note was the general lack of remorse when discussing the seven deceased high-elves. Apathy? Perhaps? Or the simple prioritization of her life over the already killed Thalmor.

"I'm a Dunmer refugee," he finally noted.

"And the Thalmor?"

"Took me for a necromancer."

"Ah... And your name?"

The traveller was starting to dislike the situation more and more. An interrogation conducted by a warrior claiming to be a local hunter, with the traveller himself being unable to even defend himself, his tired body having robbed him of that chance. "Ervas," he muttered into his mask.

"Right. Anora," she finally lowered her bow and slotted the arrow back into the quiver on her back, "and I am assuming you won't want to stay out here for long?" She was expecting some sort of answer, but upon receiving none, continued her point, "The Thalmor would be looking for someone as well. I'm certain you could use a place to rest, and these woods are not the safest. Hefty sword on back or not."

"What are you proposing?"

"Well," carefully, she started to walk around the traveller, sizing him up and trying to answer a few questions for herself. The most curious thing appeared to be the golden facemask, and the detailed cloth covering his pauldrons and armour, with the patterns of blue and white masking themselves behind dirt, mud and damage. "Depends on where you're headed, but... I can offer you a roof between you and the sky for the night and set you off on a proper road in the morning."

An enticing offer, yes, but it lacked something. "Why?" It lacked incentive.

She stopped, having nearly completed a full circle around him, "You don't look like a bandit or a highwayman, and you ran a blade through the Thalmor. Enough for me."

"Right..." Ervas breathed into his mask, having kept track of the hunter during her loop around him.

Following the uneasy agreement, at least from Ervas' viewpoint, the pair set out. Anora was indeed familiar with the forest around them, being able to locate a footpath for them to follow with ease. The scenery around them didn't change much, the old forests of Cyrodiil rarely did. The same was applicable for the fatigue and pain tormenting Ervas: his legs ached from the required bursts of speed, his shoulders were tired and weak from the weight of the large blade forged of black glass slung over his back. But a proposition from Anora to aid in carrying the large weapon, or any piece of kit which appeared to be weighing down her guest, was quickly countered with a cold, almost rude remark.

* * *

With a few degrees missing from the sun reaching the peak of its transit across the blue sky, the hunter and traveller emerged from the woodline into a small clearing. The path chosen by Anora had led them here, to her home. On the opposing side of the clearing was a small cottage, a construction of wood befitting her appearance and activities, or so Ervas decided. No guard dog, no real animals or pets to speak of, at least on the outside, simply a path leading up to the cottage, a small garden by one side, edible colours of green and red flashing through the knee-high fence surrounding it, and a well, positioned a short distance away from the house's front door.

An average key opened the door to the inside, revealing a main room lit by candles and the sunlight beaming in, through the windows. Chairs, a fireplace and a wooden table made up the contents of the room, providing more than enough accommodation for a hunter to make by with. Along with the main room, a set of two personal chambers and an attached utility room made up this relatively humble abode. Anora opened one of the chamber doors, and guided Ervas inside.

"Nothing special, but should beat a hard tree trunk and wet grass when waking up." Her voice had cheered up considerably, gone was the tension and strain which dominated the first exchange. Instead, a simple, if not cheery tone took its place.

Ervas responded with a polite, short, "Thank you."

"I'll be tending to a few things in the clear, let me know if you need anything."

As promised, she quickly left the room, and eventually the house, providing privacy to the traveller - he could finally rest. In an almost religiously practiced ritual, Ervas started removing his armour and weaponry: having pulled back his hood, he undid the straps forcing the mask against his face, tilting his head down to let the protective shell fall onto an open palm. He placed it aside, unwrapped the cloth covering him and inspected his equipment: the scrolls, leather and cloth were stained with grime and blood, the metal chainmail, golden pauldrons and leggings had long lost their shine to a coating of mud and muck.

Ervas sighed and sat down onto the single-bed present in the room. He leaned back slightly, and undid the triangular arrangement of leather strapping that fixed the scabbard of his large blade to his back, letting the weapon fall onto the mattress. Chainmail, gauntlets, greaves, scrolls with the magic drained from them - it took time to complete this ritual. And it would take more time to clean and provide for the equipment which had provided for him on his journey. Finally only clad in a shirt and trousers, which would normally form the underlayer for his full armour, and with a longsword still fastened to his waist, Ervas stood up and walked outside, having ensured that his equipment was neatly stowed.

Stepping outside, he had a moment to take in his surroundings. The chilling wind picked up and ran across the gap in the woods, finally being offered the chance to run through the traveller's hair and caress his face. A tired expression adorned the long, angular, elven face, with two red eyes, as is common to the Dunmeri race, scanning and searching for something specific. He quickly located Anora, and wished to see if she had the tools to enable him to take care of his armour and weapons. As expected, due to her profession, if nothing else, she did.

* * *

The day eventually began nearing its end, Ervas had spent most of it diligently tending to the tools which he had carried with him, while Anora was tending to more mundaine tasks which required completion around the house. She appeared curious regarding the effort Ervas, someone, she though, should have been sleeping the entire day, had put into his equipment, but opted against asking or prodding. Privacy matters to him, she thought to herself, and simply proceeded about her day.

A sun, tinted orange, was soon to end its flight above the forest. The light was still enough, but the cold air of autumn was starting to make note of itself. Ervas had donned his robes in order to finish duties outside. He noticed a group of men emerge from the treeline, following the same footpath which had brought Anora and Ervas here, and proceed to make their way towards the cottage. The armour and blades, crafted of Elven glass, their robes and the overall presence made their allegiance clear enough: they were soldiers of the Thalmor.

Ervas took immediate note, halting work on his longsword, the final item in his inventory which required it, and stood up. Anora quickly jogged up to meet them, perhaps to make sure her guest did not make contact first. The patrol of four stopped as Anora reached them, and one from their number stepped forth. An exchange started, one inaudible to Ervas due to the distance at play. Glances and gestures were made towards him, until Anora finally beckoned him to come closer.

"Sheath your blade, Dunmer," the leader of the patrol glared and commanded with audible disdain. Anora provided a slight nod in reassurance. Circumstances considered, the action did not offer any reassurance.

A trap? A collaborator of the Thalmor? Ervas tightened his grip on the sword, the various possibilities sparking through his mind with speed: wait, fight, flee, run, kill... All were viable, but he only needed one option, he needed to make one decision. The Thalmor take: they do not allow you to come with them, they _take_ you. They would have killed him, or wounded him by now, had they been intent on capturing him, or so was Ervas' course of thought. Further more, he was not in fighting shape, not at this moment. With reluctance, he sheathed his sword, but took a slight step back, and leaned on his back leg.

"Why is this low-elf here?" the captain persisted.

"He's a.." Anora sputtered for a moment, glancing at the clothing worn by her guest, "a pilgrim," she came to a conclusion.

The captain side-stepped Anora, and got rather close to Ervas, looking down at him. "A pilgrim who carries black glass?" he had noted the sword, and its construction, "Ebony?"

Anora tried to keep up, "Uh, these are dangerous..." but the captain was more interested in whether or not the alledged pilgrim had anything to say, staring rather intently at him.

"The roads are dangerous," Ervas pardoned himself, with any attempts to hold back his disdain towards the organization he was dealing with failing, and his tone of voice carrying the risk of sounding insulting. "As are the woods." He quickly gathered words, refocusing his tone to provide a chance of leaving the confrontation without shackles, or worse, "This _'Legion'_ does not know how to protect anything."

The Altmer scoffed, "And the ash-elves do?" and smirked. He walked back to Anora's front, still peering over her to glance at Ervas every now and then. "Other than your pilgrim, have you noticed any other... Unwanted individuals in the area?"

The Redguard woman stood silent, as if pondering for a moment, and shook her head. "None, other than the usual folk."

"Hrmm..." the captain pondered, still staring at, and sizing up Ervas. The latter had to focus himself so that he would not clutch his blade in any way, lest he may be cut down. He noted the complete carelessness of the captain, whose hands were far from the sword resting on his hip, the same was applicable for everyone in the party. Without warning, he turned about, and proceeded back down the road, his troops following him without question.

Anora breathed a sigh of relief as the patrol vanished black into the darkening treeline. "They don't take kindly to visitors. Or anyone, really."

"I am aware."

"Right.. The day's ending, should probably finish off whatever you were tending to and come inside."

The night passed, and a new day dawned. By mid-morning, Ervas was walking down a scrolling dirt and stone path once more. He had reacquainted himself with his armour and weaponry, shouldering the burden of metal, ebony and cloth once more. Anora guided him to a road leading northwards, and disappeared back into the forests which served as her home. The traveller continued down the path set under his feet.

* * *

**Author's notes:** Well ain't this a kick in the pacing. Basically, character development time. I just hope I didn't drag this out for too long, I guess I'll see. Hmm, also, I have actually developed a plot-skeleton, so I actually know where to take this now. Should be fun.


End file.
